KEIFER — MANILA
I'd been in Manila for two weeks, the time I came straight after the award ceremony...
Long enough for the city to stop feeling like a memory and start feeling like a responsibility.
The project demanded presence. Watson presence. My presence.
I told myself it was professional.
I didn't tell myself it was for her.
When Honey confirmed their landing, something in my chest tightened in a way I hadn't prepared for. Six years of distance hadn't dulled the instinct. It had only buried it deeper.
Jay Jay was back in our city.
And I was the one who made sure she arrived smoothly.
The dinner was scheduled weeks in advance.
High-level. Necessary. Political.
But I chose the seating.
Opposite me.
Not beside.
I needed to see her.
When she walked in, the room reacted before I did.
She didn't pause. Didn't scan. Didn't hesitate.
She moved like someone who had already survived worse than this.
That hurt.
New York had changed her—sharpened her, steadied her—but Manila had left its mark too. I could see it in the way her shoulders stayed squared, the way her eyes didn't soften when they met mine.
No recognition.
No warmth.
Just history standing upright.
Cole Wilson sat beside her like he belonged there. Comfortable. Protective without posturing.
Celeste on the other side—calm, observant, dangerous.
They flanked her.
I hated that I noticed.
I hated that I cared.
Conversation flowed around us—numbers, expansions, shared futures. I answered when required. Smiled when necessary.
But my attention betrayed me.
Every time Jay lifted her glass, I followed without meaning to.
Every time she spoke, my jaw tightened like I was bracing for impact.
She didn't look at me once.
That was worse than anger.
Angelo tried to engage her. Polite. Professional.
She answered cleanly. Coldly.
Aries stayed silent. He always knew when to watch instead of speak.
When she stood before dessert, something inside me snapped tight.
"Excuse me. Early morning."
Control. Precision. Distance.
She didn't acknowledge me.
Outside, the heat wrapped around us, thick and unforgiving. She stood by the car like she was waiting for something—or daring it to happen.
I stepped in without thinking.
Blocked her path.
Caged her.
The second I did it, I felt it—too close, too familiar, too wrong.
"You don't get to walk away like that," I said, anger covering something far more dangerous.
She shoved me.
Hard.
Not fear.
Rejection.
"You kissed him," I said, the words ugly and exposed. "In front of me."
"I don't owe you permission."
She was right.
I still didn't stop.
"You ran," I snapped. "You disappeared—"
"Don't touch me."
That wasn't a request.
That was a line.
When she shoved me again, I realized too late that I'd already lost.
"You don't get to corner me," she said coldly. "Not here. Not ever again."
Cole's voice cut in immediately. Controlled. Final.
"Back away. Now."
Celeste was already at her side, eyes flat, calculating damage.
I stepped back.
Because if I didn't, I'd become exactly what she accused me of being.
"This isn't over," I said quietly, the words tasting like denial.
"It ended six years ago."
She didn't raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
I watched her get into the car—the same one I'd arranged, the same protection I'd insisted on—and felt something crack in a place I'd built to never fail.
As the car disappeared into Manila's lights, the truth settled in with brutal clarity:
I hadn't brought her back here to negotiate.
I'd brought her back because some part of me still believed proximity meant access.
And she had just proved—
It doesn't.
Manila wasn't my territory tonight.
It was hers.
And I'd never felt more exposed in my own city.
JAY — MANILA (LATER THAT NIGHT)
I shouldn't have been driving.
I knew that.
My hands were steady on the wheel, but my chest wasn't. Too tight. Too loud. The city lights streaked past like something chasing me, and I didn't want to be caught.
The villa turnoff passed.
Celeste frowned from the back seat. "Uh—Jay? That was our—"
"I know," I said.
The accelerator dipped.
Then pressed.
Harder.
Cole glanced at me, something sharp flickering in his eyes. "You okay?"
"No," I said honestly. "I need air."
The road narrowed. The city changed texture. Less glass. More memory.
My foot pressed down.
The car surged forward, engine roaring like it understood exactly what I needed.
I pulled into a side street that shouldn't have existed anymore.
But it did.
The bar was still there.
Smaller. Quieter. Hidden behind a laundromat that smelled like soap and heat. No signage. Just a red bulb over a metal door.
Celeste let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-relief. "Okay. This is what you meant. A Bar Let'ssss goo"
My pulse stuttered.
I'd found this place when I was younger. When I needed somewhere to disappear that didn't ask questions.
Some things really didn't forget you.
Inside, the music was loud enough to blur thought. Low ceiling. Sticky floors. Neon bleeding into shadow. It smelled like tequila and sweat and release.
We slid onto bar stools like we belonged.
Celeste slapped the counter. "Tequila. Three. Don't pace us."
The bartender didn't ask names.
Salt. Lime. Burn.
The first shot hurt.
The second softened.
By the third, the noise inside my head finally quieted.
Cole laughed—real, loose. Celeste leaned into me, shouting something about "bad decisions being character development."
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Music shifted. Louder. Faster.
We were on our feet before the song finished.
Coats came off. Blazers abandoned. Heels kicked aside.
I stopped thinking.
That was the most dangerous part.
Bodies moved around us—close, anonymous, warm. Someone danced near me. Then closer.
A hand hovered, asking without words.
I nodded.
The boy smiled—easy, harmless—and moved with me. Nothing heavy. Nothing meaningful. Just rhythm and breath and forgetting.
I caught Cole's eye—he was dancing too, some girl laughing against his shoulder.
Celeste was spinning with a guy who looked like trouble and joy wrapped together.
They smirked at me.
I rolled my eyes and turned back—
And suddenly—
My arm was grabbed.
Not gentle.
Not familiar in the right way.
I stumbled back, breath catching as my spine hit the wall.
The music thudded around us, too loud, too close.
A mouth crashed into mine.
Rough.
Urgent.
And—
Familiar.
My body betrayed me first.
Muscle memory flared—automatic, ancient. My hands lifted, reacting before my mind caught up.
The moment my fist connected with his chest, something snapped clean.
Not him.
Me.
I shoved past him, breath ragged, ears ringing. My coat was in one hand, my heels dangling uselessly from my fingers. I didn't even remember grabbing the bottle until it was heavy against my thigh.
I didn't look back.
I walked out of the bar barefoot.
The night swallowed me whole.
"Jay—wait."
His voice followed. Closer than I wanted.
I kept walking.
The street was slick, neon reflecting off wet pavement like broken glass. Cars passed, horns blaring, life moving on like I wasn't coming apart piece by piece.
"Get in the car," Keifer said, catching up. "You're drunk. It's not safe."
I laughed.
It came out wrong. Sharp. Ugly.
"Don't touch me," I said without turning. "Don't follow me. Don't tell me what's safe."
Rain started as a whisper.
Then it poured.
Warm, sudden, relentless—soaking my hair, my dress, my skin. The bottle slipped in my grip; I caught it just in time.
Keifer moved in front of me now, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, suit ruined, control cracking at the seams.
"Why can't you just listen to me for once?" he demanded. "Why do you make everything harder than it has to be?"
That did it.
I stopped.
Slowly.
I turned.
Rain streamed down my face, indistinguishable from the tears I hadn't noticed falling.
"You don't get to ask me that," I said softly.
My voice shook.
Not weak.
Unleashed.
"You don't get to tell me who I dance with. You don't get to decide what I owe you. And you never get to cage me and call it love."
He took a step forward. "I didn't mean—"
"I know exactly what you meant," I cut in, finally breaking. "That's the problem."
My chest heaved. The words spilled now, drunk and furious and long buried.
"I ran because staying was killing me," I said. "Because every time I spoke, I wasn't heard. Every time I said stop, it was negotiated. Every time I loved you, I disappeared a little more."
Thunder cracked overhead.
"I rebuilt myself from nothing," I went on, voice rising. "From fear. From silence. From nights where I slept on floors and told myself surviving was enough."
I laughed again—hollow, wrecked. "And you think you still get to own me because I once loved you?"
Keifer's face crumpled.
"I love you," he said desperately. "I never stopped."
I shook my head.
"That's not love," I whispered. "That's possession. And I almost lost my life learning the difference."
Rain drenched us both.
I stepped back.
"My heart remembering you doesn't give you rights to my body," I said, steady now. "It just means healing isn't linear."
The rain soaked us to the bone.
Keifer's jaw tightened, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "I did what I had to do," he snapped. "You don't understand what it was like watching you destroy yourself. I was protecting you."
I laughed.
God—it came out cruel.
Protecting.
I stepped closer, rain plastering my hair to my face, eyes burning. "Protecting me?" I mocked. "By deciding for me? By cornering me? By telling me I was just a plan of revenge for you ?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"No," I cut in sharply, voice rising over the rain. "That's exactly what you meant. You just dressed it up so you could sleep at night."
He slammed a hand against the side of the car behind him. "I didn't have a choice!"
I flinched—not from fear, but from fury.
"You always had a choice," I yelled. "You just chose revenge."
Thunder roared above us.
"I was drowning," I went on, words tearing out of me now. "And instead of pulling me up, you told me to stay still so you wouldn't lose me."
Keifer shook his head violently. "You don't know what it did to me—watching you leave. I broke. I lost everything."
I stepped back, rain blurring my vision.
"And yet," I said hoarsely, "I'm still the one who had to survive."
Silence crashed between us.
Then—something inside me finally snapped.
"I hate that I still love you," I blurted.
The words hung there, naked and horrifying.
"I hate it," I whispered, voice breaking. "I hate that my heart remembers you when my body remembers fear. I hate that six years wasn't enough to erase you."
Keifer froze.
My chest tightened painfully.
"But loving you," I continued, tears mixing with rain, "doesn't mean I can go back. It doesn't mean you're safe for me. It just means I'm human."
My knees buckled.
The world tilted.
The rain got louder.
For one terrifying second, I felt nothing but weightlessness.
Then—
Darkness.
I didn't fall to the ground.
I fell into arms.
Keifer caught me on instinct, horror ripping through his face as he held my limp body, rain soaking us both.
"Jay," he whispered, panic finally overtaking anger. "Jay—look at me. Please."
But I was already gone.
Not choosing.
Not yielding.
Just… empty.
The storm raged on.
And for the first time, Keifer Watson was left holding the truth without being able to bend it...